


Something Like That

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Dominance, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Rimming, Slurs, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it’s in everyone’s best interests if Bard just marries the Master. Even Alfrid’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for theg1nger1’s “Bard's wife is dead, leaving him with three young children to take care of. The Master is unwed and looking for a nice young person to take care of his house and to "Get Busy" with. When he notices Bards predicament he offers what he views as the perfect solution, food, clothing, and a nice house for Bards children, a clean house and Bard's hot body for him. What could be better then that? Obviously slight dubcon if Bard says yes, but no outright noncon. You would have my heart if you went from the courting, to the wedding, to the wedding night and maybe after.” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20724223#t20724223). Some **tags and the rating** are for future chapters.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’re trying, he knows. No matter who’s stall Bard stops at, they always try to give him a discount, just because he’s _nice_ , like so few people in their bitter town, and he does his best to pay it back when he can. But even with their kindly smiles and lowered prices, he doesn’t make enough to go far, and he spends far longer than he’d like running his thumb across tattered fabric. He’d love to get Sigrid something truly _new_ , or at least undamaged, but trade comes hard to their town, and clothing, like everything, is too expensive. His only solace is that whatever she leaves behind will fit Bain and Tilda in time. For now, she’s still growing out of everything he has, and Bard _wants_ to cover that.

The merchant lets him take his time. She gives him a kindly pat on the hand and goes to attend other customers—he’s one of the few people trusted not to steal. No matter how far he falls, he doesn’t think of that. He’s able, and he’ll just work harder if he has to. He could be a lot worse off, and he knows that. Still, life’s been so _trying_ since his children’s mother past away.

He puts the dress back down on the table, and as soon as he does, he gets a shiver up his spine. He gets that distinct feeling that there are eyes on him, as they so often are. He’s too used to the sensation of a heated gaze boring into his back. When he glances over his shoulder, he knows just where to look, and his eyes lift to the balcony suspended over the docks about him. The Master’s out again, peering over the railing with eyes just for _Bard_. He’s been watching Bard more than usual of late. It puts a scowl on Bard’s face, and he turns back around, pretending not to notice and trying not to care. It’s unsettling, but the Master’s not worth losing sleep over.

The merchant totters back and asks him, “So?” He smiles as best he can, and she smiles like she knew it. She tells him gently, “It’ll still be here next week, and the little ones won’t grow much ‘til then.”

“I’ll come back with my next pay,” he sighs, grateful for the understanding. She waves her hand like everything’s alright, then turns and spots the Master, her face twisting into the sneer he tried to keep at bay. At least he’s rarely alone in his discomfort. He takes his cue to leave, wondering if it’ll ever be easier.

* * *

He’s never surprised anymore to see Alfrid waiting for him. Alfrid sits bent over a barrel while all the other barges slip through, then leaps to his feet like a puppy with a wagging tail whenever Bard’s approaches. Except Bard’s always liked dogs, and Alfrid’s greasier, not even remotely cute, and with a bark more annoying than any bite. Bard lets his barge be stopped, his barrels automatically collected, and he heads straight for Alfrid, hoping to get it over with quick. 

He drawls the customary, “What do you want, Alfrid?” and is mildly surprised at the look on Alfrid’s face.

It’s usually a sadistic smile, always eager to have Bard in his clutches, but today it’s more restrained, begrudging. He mutters, “The Master wants to see you.” That should make him _ecstatic_ , but instead, he just looks torn. It’s the least excited he’s ever looked to flex his political muscles, and he turns to leave without a word. Bard leaves before the usual guards can set in behind him. He’s one of the few people in the city who can trust the dock man with his boat. 

The walk to the Master’s house is all routine. Bard’s had it many times, although usually he’s stopped outside, where one of the guards or their captain or even the Master himself will come out to scold Bard until they grow sick of his eye rolling. A few times he’s been read decrees and warned with outdated laws that never get enforced. He’s spent the night in the cells twice, both times for punching guards that more than deserved it. Once, he was aiming for Alfrid, but Alfrid ducks like a weasel and the guard he caught earned it just as much. Both times, it was worth it.

No one’s waiting for him outside today. He’s marched up the stairs and right on through the hall, one of the only houses in this town not completely rotted away—only the Master can afford to replace broken beams. He follows Alfrid through the expansive corridors, right up to the long dining table the Master practically lives at. He’s seated there now, a handsome array of food laid out before him that Bard pointedly doesn’t look at. He presumes to go right up and take a seat at the table across from the Master, eyeing him levelly with a certain suspicion and clear refusal to back down. The Master merely smiles, his too-oiled mustache seeming to curl even tighter at the ends. 

To Bard’s surprise, the first thing the Master does is chirp, “That will be all, Alfrid.” Unable to stop himself, Bard glances over his shoulder, to see Alfrid first gape, then scowl deeply, but still scamper away. He goes like a rat, and in his wake, the Master offers strangely pleasantly, “Food?”

Bard’s stomach tightens, but he doesn’t touch it. The Master waits for a moment, but when it’s clear Bard’s resolve won’t break, he rolls right on, smiling too wide with dirty teeth, “I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you here.”

Again, Bard says nothing. He’s summoned to see the Master often, so that’s hardly noteworthy, though he is curious at the offer of good food and the dismissal of Alfrid, who seems to kneel at the Master’s feet for every occasion. The Master leans back in his chair—Bard can hear it groan in protest under his sizeable weight—and goes on, “I have a proposal for you.” Bard merely lifts an eyebrow, sure he’s interested in none of the Master’s schemes, except that the Master goes on to say, “Marriage, to be precise.”

Having no idea what that’s got to do with him, Bard asks, “Of who?”

The Master says, “Us,” and then has the gal to _smile_ , like he hasn’t just made the most disgusting jest in the world.

Bard just sort of... _stares_. He’s sure, at first, that he’s heard wrong, and he replays the single word in his head, trying to pry it apart and put it back together in a way that doesn’t mean what it sounds like. Shock numbs Bard’s body, but as usual, the Master simply goes on, “It only makes sense, you see. You’re a realist. You know that in these trying times, marriages need not be for love. It can simply be mutually beneficial.”

“You don’t...” Bard starts, but he only trails off, still at a complete lost. The Master chuckles. 

“I don’t have anything you want? Bard, Bard, I have _plenty._ ” Then he leans forward again, bent over the table so that it tilts slightly, food slinking down their plates towards him, and he mutters in a conspirator’s whisper, like Bard will absolutely understand once he’s been let in on it, “You know, this was a positively genius idea of mine. It only makes sense! You want money and a good home for your children, and I want someone to take care of my home and my... needs.” His voice dips at the end, a little lecherous, and as soon as Bard lets his mind stray _there_ , his face is twisting in disgust. This certainly isn’t what he thought he’d be dragged in for. 

The Master straightens out again: that’s the whole deal. He makes no mention of Bard’s heritage, although Bard does wonder, of course, if there’s an ulterior motive to wedding Girion’s heir. Instead of paying it much mind, Bard says simply, “No.”

The Master’s expression doesn’t change: clearly, he expected as much. He says confidently, “Think about it.” And then he nudges a plate of bread forward, so fresh that Bard can _smell_ the melted butter smeared across it. The Master purrs, in what he probably thinks is a tantalizing tone, “Your family would be _very_ well taken care of...”

“My children don’t deserve a stepfather like you,” Bard mumbles, deliberately not looking down at the bread. The Master waves his hand dismissively.

“Of course not! I’ll have nothing to do with them—do I look like I want to raise children? I’ll simply make sure they’re _taken care of_. Money, guards, food, clothes—whatever they could wish for! Besides, we could always get a divorce if you found it so untenable.” But the Master’s smirking as though he doesn’t think anyone could walk away from this life.

He’s probably right. Bard could if he just had himself to worry about, but he doubts he’d have the strength to take a good life away from his children once they had it. The thought alone makes him slightly sick, although he’s not sure which of the many thoughts is weighing on him most. The Master repeats saccharinely, “Think about it.” Bard’s sure he will. It’ll probably keep him up at night. 

He doesn’t agree to even do that. He just sits there, uncharacteristically quiet and unsure but trying to appear more solid than he feels. The Master suddenly bellows, “ALFRID!”

Alfrid comes scurrying out from whatever hole he was hiding in: there in a flash. Bard doesn’t look at him, just senses his lurking. He was probably listening. He doesn’t look any happier than Bard feels—if this is all some big joke, Alfrid’s not in on it. Bard takes that as his leave and rises from the table, the Master still grinning at him. It’s irksome. 

He follows Alfrid out, the two of them silent.

* * *

“Da’, it’s _perfect_ ,” Sigrid exclaims as she twirls, the dress clutched tightly to her. It’s a lavender colour, or is for now—it’ll likely be brown or grey like everything else by the season’s end. Still, she looks happy. She smiles at him genuinely. And it gives him that swell of _joy_ in his chest that’s become so very hard to come by.

Sitting by the hearth, Tilda chirps, “I want one!”

“You have enough for now,” Bard gently tells her, while Sigrid comes to wrap him in a hug, then skips off to change. Bain watches his sister go, then returns to the scroll he’s been trying to read for a week. It came out of the attic, old and faded, and Bain thinks it’s more exciting than it is, so Bard’s let him chip away at the archaic runes. Tilda stands up, probably to chase after Sigrid, but Bard catches her under the arms and hikes her up, carrying her across the carpet. She squeaks, then laughs, and clings to his shoulders.

“Off to bed with you both,” he announces, and his voice comes out wheezy, because Tilda’s getting heavy. And he’s getting old. Bain groans, but he does get up. The fire died out half an hour ago, and they’re all looking forward to blankets.

Bard carries Tilda to bed, Bain following, and he watches Sigrid parade out in her new dress before she changes back to sleep, kissing him on the cheek again with thanks. It was worth the budgeting, and it looks lovely on her, like most things. She says he’s biased, but he thinks she looks like a princess who deserves more jewels than he has. 

When he’s finished saying goodnight, and he’s back alone in his own bed, of course he wishes he could give them _more_. He sometimes wishes he had more for himself, but it’s a more fleeting thought. Loneliness is the biggest part that bugs him. His bed isn’t built for two, but he doesn’t enjoying being just _one_.

And he thinks, somehow, of lying in the Master’s bed, which he’s never seen but is probably _huge_ , with the Master’s big, sweaty body laid out before him. Has asks himself if it’d really be so bad, and then he hates himself for asking. He wonders vaguely if he could just shut his eyes and pretend the Master was someone else, enjoy being _married_ again, maybe even enjoy _sex_ , because he has needs as much as anyone. It would be a sham, but he’s not particularly opposed to selling his body for sex. It doesn’t seem any less strenuous than moving empty barrels across the frigid lake. But the façade of _marriage_ would _hurt_ , and he hates the Master in particular. 

Finally, he just rolls over and tries not to think about it.

* * *

He has to go for another run. There’s a schedule to keep, and he can’t afford to miss any days. He has no excuse to, other than just that he’s _tired_. He helps Sigrid cook a few meals to give the little ones when he’s gone, hating the whole time that she has to act like their mother. Bain and Tilda sit at the table, because they know he’s leaving soon, and Bain asks, “Why do you have to cross that thing? It’s dangerous.”

Bard just says, “I’ll be alright,” without really thinking about it. The water’s cold enough that he could die a few minutes after falling in, if it were near the heart of it, and things live under the water that no one likes to speak of. Especially away from the town: safety in numbers. But he’s been fine all these years, and he’ll be fine a few more.

When he’s at the door, they hug him goodbye, one at a time, then all three at once, and he promises them, “I’ll be back soon.” They all know ‘soon’ is a relative term. He leaves the house with a heavy heart and can’t help but wonder what he’d have to do if he married the Master. Not go collecting barrels, certainly. Some other poor fool would. And he’d be left to clean, and maybe to cook here and there, though the Master has a chef for that. Mostly, he’d just have to give his body. He hasn’t had to clean himself up for sex in years. He probably wouldn’t bother to do that for the Master. He doesn’t even know the Master’s name, and he doesn’t particularly care to, and even in this, it doesn’t seem to matter. If Bard married him, Bard would be _the Master’s Husband._

He’s not particularly surprised to see Alfrid at the docks. But for the first time, there’s no trouble. Alfrid doesn’t hassle him, just sits back and glares. Bard wonders once if it’s the Master’s blessing, finds it curious, and leaves.

* * *

He walks right in, past the guards who splutter but don’t stop him, right up to the table where the Master’s got a meal fit for three. He has a napkin tucked into his shirt, a fork in his hand, and tomato sauce smeared across his chin. He pauses mid-chew, and Bard takes a seat without invitation. 

“I have rules,” he says, stern and non-negotiable. The Master looks shocked, then pleased, and swallows, while Bard rolls on before he can be interrupted, “You’ll provide my children with whatever they want, but you will _not_ try to raise them, and the second you hurt one of them, this is all over. They’ll be given whatever clothes they need, fed well, and each given their own room to sleep in. I’ll clean up and cook when you want it, but I won’t work otherwise. I expect to be able to stay home and raise my children, and you won’t try to monopolize my time with them; I’m not a trophy husband and you can’t expect me at your side for more than meal times and at night. You can fuck me on the wedding night and no more than once a week, and I reserve the right to say no for _any_ reason. If I don’t agree to it within the week, you’re free to divorce me but _not_ to force yourself on me. I won’t hear of any archaic ownership ideas. Those are my terms, and you can take them or leave them.”

Honestly, he expects the Master to leave them. Or at least to try and negotiate them down. But the Master only blinks at him, startled, clearly unaccustomed to being confronted this way. Then the Master falls silent, thinking, his hungry eyes roving up and down Bard’s body. Bard doesn’t shrink back. He’d be a fool to miss the way the Master looks at him, practically salivating, but however calloused and aged and bitter, Bard holds his body at a high value. He holds his will higher. The Master’s already made it clear he doesn’t want a one time fix—he wants regular access to Bard, but if he was hoping to touch, he’ll have to settle for seeing, smelling, lying in the same bed with, which is already more than Bard wants to offer. In some ways, his terms are generous.

Finally, the Master sets into a wide grin, and he reaches his thick arm across the table to excitedly squeal, “Agreed!”

Bard reaches back to clasp the Master’s hand, shake its surprisingly firm grip, and wonder what he’s gotten himself into.


	2. Marinating

The children don’t attend the wedding by Bard’s request. He’s explained that it’s his decision, one they must respect, but he knows they’ll take time to adjust. The guests that do attend look thoroughly confused, at least until they get enough alcohol in them. It’s the only time in as long as Bard can remember that the Master’s actually generous; he provides drinks and elaborate food and even entertainment for the occasion. 

Bard feels the same as everyone else, but he doesn’t have the luxury of drinking himself into a stupor. He doesn’t trust the Master enough. He takes one glass of wine and sips at it when he can, until he’s drawn up to the steps of the Master’s home, made to hold the Master’s hands, and the officiant stands behind them, droning on. 

The officiant doesn’t say the Master’s real name: just the title. Bard decides he doesn’t care. He’s given the title of ‘bowman,’ which is generous, and slightly surprising—he didn’t know the Master had any clue of his weapon choice. Alfrid probably told him. The Master grins the whole way through, eyeing Bard up and down with flushed cheeks and exposed teeth. Alfrid skulks in the background, more insufferable than ever.

When the officiant tells them they can kiss, Bard doesn’t move at all. The Master lunges forward, smashing his mouth into Bard’s. Bard’s almost knocked over by the sudden weight, but somehow manages to stand strong, taking a wet, messy kiss that has him struggling to breathe. It’s vaguely disgusting but nothing he can’t handle. He lets the Master grope at his mouth for as long as he can stand, then shoves the Master back by his chest, and the Master straightens back up with the smirk of a cat. 

The reception comes after. They sit down at a table just below the Master’s house with more scattered around and people dancing in between. A ragtag band of musicians scrape together a jovial tune, mismatched but better than the noise of the Master’s voice. He barks orders the whole time—more wine, more presents, louder, Alfrid to fetch another round of h’ordeurves. Bard buries himself in the cake which _almost_ makes it all worth it. Vanilla flavoured and wondrously fluffy, it gives him the sugar high he needs. He figures he deserves to treat himself for this mess and eats little more than cake all night. 

Food’s sent to his children, through his own friends rather than the Master’s guards, and he notices many citizens sweeping other bits into their pockets, saving for friends or for tomorrow. It’s strange to see everyone so _happy_ , but it makes him glad. They needed something to celebrate, however odd, and a fair spread of food. It makes him think, amidst the haze of everything else, if he can do anything with this. 

He won’t be a lord, not really, but he’ll be close to one and definitely in power. Perhaps he could use his influence to better Laketown, the way the Master should’ve done all along. 

And then it hits him, while he’s into his third slice of cake and Alfrid’s yelling at the jugglers trying to perform before the head table, that this puts Sigrid next in line. The Master has no heirs. Sigrid will inherit leadership, and she’ll be the best thing to happen to this place in decades. 

That realization makes things entirely more bearable, even when the Master dares to drop his hand onto Bard’s thigh. Bard considers stabbing it with his fork but instead just slaps it away, and the Master chuckles like his friskiness is cute. Bard eats more cake and takes it.

* * *

When the wedding night comes, Bard resolves to get it over with fast. He vaguely wishes he’d had more wine, but he’s still pitifully sober, and the Master seems just as clear headed. He shuts the door behind them when they’re in the bedroom, wearing an absolutely feral grin. 

Bard rolls his eyes and looks away, instead just observing: he needs a minute to take it all in. The bedroom’s larger than any he’s ever seen, with a giant, four-poster bed, plenty of rich, hanging fabric, and a truly hideous painting of the Master on the wall. The balcony doors are shut, but the glass in them looks out to a stunning panorama of the city and the pale light of the stars. 

Bard hears when the mattress creaks, and he turns to find the Master perched on the end of the bed, licking his lips. Bard takes a begrudging step forward but finds he can’t get any farther, with them still an arm’s length apart. The master kicks off his boots and shrugs out of his cape but leaves his fancy tunic and trousers on, and then he coos, “Well?” 

Taking another breath, Bard steadies himself. He pulls it all in and steals over, strengthening; he can still do this on his terms. He tries to look for something endearing in the Master to focus on, but there isn’t a single part of him that at all turns Bard on, so Bard gives up and just means to get it done. He shrugs off his coat and lets it fall to the floor, stepping out of his boots afterwards.

The floor’s cold, but not nearly as much as he’s used to, and that’s jarring. He wriggles his toes against the wood and rolls his shoulders, while the Master’s eyes greedily rove over him. Then Bard lifts his hands to his tunic and pulls the hem up over his body, tossing the fabric down amidst his coat. The Master’s eyes seem to double in size, fixed on his chest and stomach, nothing special but fairly hardened, toned. He needs another moment to brace himself before he deftly unfastens the ties of his trousers, letting them pool around his ankles. 

“Beautiful,” the Master murmurs, which gives Bard an odd pang of pleasure followed by immediate disappointment in himself. He doesn’t need the Master to like the look of him and he shouldn’t care what the Master thinks. The Master ruins it anyway, muttering giddily right after, “And all mine!”

“I don’t want to face you,” Bard grumbles, just in case it wasn’t clear that this is strictly a business transaction. He strolls around, keeping just out of the Master’s reach, and comes to the side of the bed, where the Master’s large body blocks out most of the moonlight. Bard climbs on, hesitating for a split second at the shock of how _soft_ the mattress is, before getting on all fours. He holds his face just above the pillows, ass to the Master, a little self-conscious but trying not to think about it. His cock hangs limply between his legs, and he thinks of telling the Master not to touch it, but decides not to bother. He’d _like_ to get off to more than his own hand again, but he hasn’t decided yet if the Master’s hand is any better. 

The Master just chuckles, “That’s quite alright,” and the bed creaks again with his movement. Thick hands latch onto the back of Bard’s thighs, forcing out a surprised gasp, and the Master growls, “I’ll be quite happy to fuck you like an animal.”

Bard wrinkles his nose but says nothing, just lets the Master run sweaty palms up the curve of his ass, fingers digging in to squeeze his taut cheeks. He worries the Master won’t prepare him right—he’s not even sure the Master knows how this kind of sex works—but that fear goes out the window a minute later. The Master kneads Bard’s ass a few times, then runs along his thighs, raking blunt nails down them, and something spongy and wet presses right between Bard’s cheeks. He knows instantly what’s happening, but he looks over his shoulder on instinct anyway, only to regret it and hang his head again—the Master’s _licking him_. A fat, wet tongue probes down his crack, finds his puckered hole and flays over it, before the Master’s hands are back to pry him open and hold his cheeks apart. Bard grits his teeth together so he won’t let out any noises.

Maybe it’s for his benefit, maybe it’s meant to pleasure him, but the Master eats him out like he’s a personal buffet. It’s loud and sloppy, full of wet squelching noises and saliva dribbling down his ass. Mostly the Master just laps at his hole, which twitches ever wider under the attention, but sometimes the Master diverts to drag long lines across his cheeks, pausing here and there to nip at his tender flesh, leaving him to shiver and hiss. He tries not to groan.

He tries to be still, except when the Master tugs him forward or pushes him back. He’s half shocked and half horrified when his cock twitches in response, but he wills it down, and the Master makes no move to touch him there. The Master focuses on his entrance until he’s dripping wet and that probing tongue thrusts inside, lapping hungrily at his inner walls. It makes him feel dirtier than ever. He should’ve taken a bath before this. But the Master doesn’t seem to care and Bard doesn’t say anything about it. He screws up his face and rides out the harsh way the Master fucks him with an insistent, curled tongue. 

It goes on too long, until Bard’s arms grow sore, and his cock gets half hard from the occasional stab at his prostate and the suction around his brim. He’s just getting mildly, traitorously into it when the Master jerks out of him, and he’s left gaping open, dripping and muffling a grunt. He feels strangely _exposed_ but knows he’s ready.

The blankets shift behind him, the Master’s knees parting around him. Stubby hands claw into his ass again, and he expects a cock to come next, but it’s just a finger that thrusts into his hole. It slides all the way inside in one go, thick though it is, and it worms about to loosen him up. Bard bites his bottom lip and waits it out, but then a second finger’s stretching him wider, and he can tell it’s not for his benefit—the Master just wants to play with him, toy with his body, draw it out, and Bard finally growls, “Get on with it.”

“Patience, darling,” the Master chuckles, though his fingers do piston in and out quicker, searching for the right bundle of nerves. When he finds it, Bard shivers, and the Master stabs at it again, then again, until Bard breaks and lets out a little cry, his cock stirring. “There we are. No reason we can’t both have a bit of fun!”

Bard’s prepared to vehemently deny it, but he doesn’t have to. The Master’s fingers fall away after a fourth stab, replaced with a blunt head that shoves abruptly inside. 

Bard tries _so hard_ to swallow a cry, but it’s been so _long_ , and the noise still rips out of him. He’s loose and wet but far too tense, and the spit’s not quite enough, and the Master’s absurdly thick. Bard’s only consolation is that it doesn’t reach too deep, and the Master pauses when he gets stuck, wriggling in and out a bit to ease it deeper. His hands seize Bard’s hips, holding on tight enough to bruise, and Bard does feel distinctly like a _dog_. He’s just grateful the Master doesn’t drape over him. When the Master slips halfway out to slam back inside, he’s pitched forward, and he lets himself fall right into the pillow. It helps gag his mouth. 

He stays like that, uncomfortably bent with his ass in the air, for the duration. The Master rides him hard but not brutal, fucking him fast but not like the monster he feared. It’s bearable. Sometimes the Master hits the right angle, sometimes not, and Bard stays in a vague half-state of arousal, unwilling to touch himself. He still can’t decide if he wants to come or not. The longer it goes, the more his resolve crumbles. The less his pride seems to matter. He’s already getting fucked by a tyrant, and he has no intention of stopping it even though he knows he could, and after a while of listening to the Master’s noisy grunts, he gives in to closing his eyes and coming back into his body, instead of trying to float away. It does feel _good_ , just not good enough. 

He tries to think of someone else, but there is no one else. He doesn’t have anyone he wants, and he can’t summon an original person right now, not with how big and strange the Master’s body is compared to everyone else he knows. So he just concentrates on _getting fucked_. Finally, he closes his thighs around his shaft, trying to give himself more pressure to rub off on, and the Master moans at the new angle and doesn’t try to pry them back apart. 

The Master comes first, with a wild yell and a sudden rush of hot seed. Bard chokes against the pillow when he feels it, caught off guard, but there’s nothing he can do about it. The Master pounds it out, and on the last thrust, Bard follows, coming silently, anticlimactic and weak. But it’ll do. It gives him some relief. The Master pulls out right away and flops wordlessly down beside him, forcing the mattress to indent. Bard can feel it but resists rolling closer. He lets his hips collapse and lies on his stomach, flattened in bed, breathing hard.

The blankets rustle beneath him. Bard’s looking at the wall, facing away, but he can tell the Master’s climbing beneath the covers. Bard doesn’t follow just yet. He’s still catching his breath and coming to terms with the Master’s seed leaking out of him.

Eventually, he grunts, “Don’t try to cuddle with me.” But he gets no answer.

He lifts up on his tired arms to look, and the Master’s clearly asleep, eyes closed and mouth open, breathing loudly but not snoring. Bard stares for a minute, then drags himself up to wriggle beneath the blankets himself. They’re wondrously warm and exquisitely soft—far better than any else he’s had. The Master’s a dead weight in his sleep and doesn’t fidget to touch Bard at all. In a way, Bard feels like he got off easy.

In another, he’s as mixed up as ever, and all he can do to get through it is picture tucking his kids into these nice blankets and treasuring their bright smiles.

* * *

They’re brought to him in the morning. He’s barely woken up and cleaning himself off when they bustle into the house, Bard hurrying down to meet them; he’d recognize their voices anywhere, through any walls. He finds them on the second landing, being ushered into three separate rooms, and they hurry up when they see him, calling delightedly, “Da’!”

He opens his arms just in time to have them filled up, Sigrid in the middle with Tilda and Bain on either side. They cling to him. When Sigrid finally detangles, her face falls from excitement into confusion, and she asks the question they all must wonder: “Da’, did you _really_ marry him?”

“You shouldn’t have,” Tilda adds, wrinkling her nose, which is pretty much the way he feels. 

“I already had love,” he sighs, and before Sigrid can jump in again with her obvious concern, Bard goes on, “And this isn’t about me. I can do good for the town now, and that’s what’s important. Don’t worry about me; I can more than take care of myself.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Bain says smartly. “I know you can out-smart and out-wrestle that old goon.” Snorting, Bard ruffles his hair, and Bain adds with a frown, “I still feel bad for you, though.”

Though he always feels cliché saying it, Bard shrugs and mutters, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” He tries to balance it out with: “On the brighter side, it makes you lot princesses and princes.”

Tilda giggles and insists, “Laketown’s lucky to have you.”

He answers, “I know,” and tries to look confident. They’re handling it better than he thought, but they’re more used to a hard life than he wanted. They understand desperate measures. Hopefully he’s put them in a place that when they grow up, they won’t have to do the same.

The servant who was showing them about—an older woman with a severe bun and dusty apron—interrupts to ask, “If you’re quite done with your rooms, shall we go on to breakfast, then?” She smiles at Bard in a friendly way, though he feels badly to suddenly have servants at all. He’ll likely be better than her other client, but it’s still more work for her. When Bain announces he’s starving, she shoos him kindly down the hall, and the rest follow, while Bard’s new husband sleeps the morning away, thankfully out of sight.

* * *

The first week is fairly easy. The children adjust better than he expected, eased along by seeing him everyday, when before his attendance could only be spotty at best. Now it’s them that are gone more than him—they’re each provided with a personal tutor, so much better than whatever books he could afford before. He wants them to learn and have all the advantages he never did, and he sits with them when he can, but he often leaves them to learn and either gets stuck on the Master’s arm or spends his own time looking over policies. He doesn’t ask to change anything yet, but he starts to find what he will.

He puts off sex. He knows he’ll have to let the Master fuck him again, because he’s not willing to walk away, and it’s a price he’ll accept. He’s not looking forward to it, but he dreads it less than his last job, leaving across the lake for what could be the last time. As the days move on, he does get sexually frustrated, and the Master salivates over him at every given opportunity, while he stands aloof on mostly pride.

He’s got one day left when he’s in the Master’s bedroom— _their_ bedroom—cleaning up the mess. He mainly just gathers clothes for others to wash and brushes crumbs out of corners. There’s a desk against the far wall that he straightens out, until the door opens and draws his eye. 

Alfrid shuffles in, scowling like a demon out of a story. He doesn’t wear his long coat, rounded hat, or boots so much in the house, but his tunic and trousers are still dark enough to wash black, and the effect is thoroughly depressing. He’s been worse since the marriage than he ever has, but he still gets Bard’s customary, “What do you want, Alfrid?”

“Just checking you’re not stealing anything,” Alfrid grunts, crossing his arms. His curved shoulders always make it look like he’s hunched over, and his bad posture doesn’t help. He looks so bitter that Bard almost pities him.

Somehow, Bard lets it roll off. He snorts, “We both know I wouldn’t do that. Even the Master knows.” Everyone knows. He always thought that was a part of why Alfrid hated him—because he is, basically, a good, well-liked person, and that’s something Alfrid will never be.

“You must feel pretty good about yourself,” Alfrid sneers, taking a meandering step forward around the bed, “working up to the highest position in town...”

“Is that why you’ve been such a prat lately? You’re jealous?” Bard lifts a brow, and Alfrid scowls ever deeper. Completely out of character, he doesn’t snap back. He doesn’t deny it. He just stands there, like a particularly ugly statue, until Bard gets disgruntled enough to think of turning back around and continuing to clean up, completely ignoring him. 

Before Bard can, Alfrid moves, stalking suddenly forward, while Bard braces for impact, an infinitely better fighter. He expects a flat-out brawl, but instead Alfrid goes straight for Bard’s face, leaning in to smash their lips together, dead-on, and Bard splutters against the awkward kiss while Alfrid tosses both hands into Bard’s dark hair, holding on. 

For a brief moment, Bard’s too shocked to react, but then he shoves Alfrid away so hard that Alfrid topples back, hitting the bed post on the way and twisting around. He lands on the floor in an unpleasant heap, hissing and clutching his knee in clear pain. Bard gets a stab of guilt mixed in with his shock, while Alfrid scrambles up to his feet and makes to run. 

Bard, for some reason, chases him. It’s too much. Bard grabs his arm before he makes it to the door, turns him around and slams him into the wall. Alfrid breathes hard against him, black hair in slick waves and eyes wide. Bard hisses without even thinking, “I have enough hardship without you in my life, so you had better stop it.”

“I was here first,” Alfrid sneers.

“And I’m here now.”

Alfrid has the nerve to scrunch up his nose and look at Bard like _Bard’s_ the disgusting one. To Bard’s complete surprise, Alfrid seethes, “You can’t really enjoy being crushed under that fat slob.”

Bard squints at Alfrid, who’s never dared to speak against the Master and isn’t doing so well right now. The Master’s weight isn’t a problem, but Alfrid’s never been fair. Bard doesn’t mention any of the real problems, just mutters, “That’s none of your business.”

Alfrid searches Bard’s face for a minute. Then he eyes Bard up and down with a too familiar look that Bard feels foolish for never interpreting right before. Somehow, he doesn’t let go. He keeps Alfrid pinned beneath him, until Alfrid murmurs, “If he gets a fucktoy, why shouldn’t you?”

Mostly out of more shock, Bard’s grip slackens. Alfrid uses the chance to peck him again, quick and fleeting, then scurries off and out the door before Bard can process it. 

He wipes his mouth off on his sleeve.

* * *

He’s making his own decisions but probably badly. He lies in bed after the Master’s fucked him, still semi-hard, while the Master falls fast asleep beside him. The Master’s still in all his clothes, and Bard’s naked again, though he could now afford some nightwear. He’s gotten Sigrid a beautiful nightgown and Tilda and Bain pajamas. He could at least get himself a robe. But he’s also perpetually tired and doesn’t care. 

The Master’s not exactly _terrible_ in bed, just not at all generous and not really satisfying. His dick’s short but fat and the rest of him’s warm but too garishly dressed. If Bard woke him up, he’d probably be willing to jerk Bard off, but Bard figures his own hand’s better.

When he’s cooled down enough from being used so thoroughly, he slides under the blankets on his side, and he spits in his palm to press it against his shaft. He strokes himself slow and deliberately, still at a lost for what to think of. Then a splotch of black flitters across his mind, and he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to fuck Alfrid Lickspittle.

He hates Alfrid. But he hates the Master too, and he’s already gone there. Alfrid might be better. His pale body’s bony and probably uncomfortable, but he’s sniveling and he’d grovel at Bard’s feet, eager to please, and Bard wouldn’t have to please him in return. Maybe Bard could treat Alfrid the way the Master treats him, though he knows he never really could go through with it. He’d have to try and give back. But Alfrid seems vulnerable and desperate and might be easy. Alfrid’s brow is too thick, but his eyes aren’t bad. He wears his stubble not that different from Bard. His hair’s not that different, just greasier. His lips are probably soft. 

He’d probably open them wide for Bard’s cock at the first chance. And then Bard could thrust inside and pound Alfrid’s annoying head right into the ground or a wall or a pillow. He could choke Alfrid on his cock, and that rough element somehow makes him less ashamed—he wouldn’t _make love_ to Alfrid, wouldn’t surrender himself, would just get off and cover Alfrid’s scowling face in cum. 

He can’t believe what his life’s become. He’s become as fucked up as them. He fantasizes about splitting Alfrid open on his dick, right in the center of Laketown, and then he thinks of spitting on Alfrid’s face, and he comes to that image, feeling like a monster but still high. It’s another weak orgasm. The real thing would probably be better. He looks sideways at his husband. 

He rolls the other way, faces the wall again, and sleeps entirely too well.


	3. Settled

One of the best perks is a better bow, both for him and Bain, though he tries to always be present when Bain gets a lesson. Tilda usually joins, but she prefers a sword.

He’s come to respect some of the guards and most respect him in turn—he’s even heard rumours, here and there, of trying to make him captain. It would be a better job than a bargemen for sure, though no less dangerous, and it’s something he only peripherally thinks on. But he still practices. He keeps in top form. There’s something strangely satisfying about drawing back his bow and watching an arrow pierce the painted straw target on the other side of the training field. Like every other time he’s shot, he lands dead center.

It’s a good release for his frustrations, and he looses one arrow after another, while a smattering of guards hanging about the sidelines chatter amongst themselves and occasionally eye his movements. He can see the admiration on their faces at his aim, though some convert it to jealousy. He never had much fear of them, but it’s strange to have no worry at all that they’ll separate him from his family for another night. 

He’s on his last arrow when Alfrid bustles in, shoulders hunched with his hands thrust in his big pockets. Bard lowers his bow; he doesn’t want to waste his last shot when Alfrid’s presence will suck out all his fun. He doesn’t get out his usual greeting, because Alfrid grunts first, “The Master wants you.”

Bard lifts an eyebrow, then glances back at his target. It’s impaled with nine arrows nearly on top of each other. He could always pluck them out and go another round. 

He needs it. It’s not yet dark out. The children will still be studying, and he rode the Master last night, so there’s no real reason to return. He decides, still eyeing the target, “Not now.”

“Now,” Alfrid growls, like a bitter dog chained behind a fence.

Bard already knows if the fence were gone, Alfrid would be cowering. He’d back down if Bard rose to his bait, but Bard doesn’t, just says sternly, “Tell the Master I’m his husband, not his slave, and I’ll come when I want.” Then he lifts his bow, deliberately shooting his last arrow without a second’s thought, just to demonstrate to Alfrid how quick and deadly he can be. He can feel Alfrid wince back beside him, never one for danger.

Alfrid still lingers, until Bard looks back at him. Alfrid’s eyes are glued to Bard’s ass, but they lift as soon as it’s clear Bard’s caught him staring, and his cheeks stain red, his scowl deep as ever. He scampers off like a rat, while Bard returns to fetch his arrows.

* * *

He sits in his armchair reading, having started doing so aloud, but quickly found the book too dense for his children to want to follow. There isn’t enough action in it anyway to sustain Bain or Tilda’s interest, and there’s no romance or political intrigue for Sigrid—it’s just dry history that Bard’s somehow gotten sucked into. A part of him just enjoys the luxury of _reading_ —he never had time or energy before.

The Master, as usual, is off doing whatever he does during the day. Sigrid’s in the corner repairing a seam on her lavender dress, and Tilda and Bain are playing with the misshapen dolls they made themselves last summer, which both look more like trolls than people. Tilda’s named hers Arya the Orc, but Bain’s is Girion the Brave. Most of their games involve smashing the two dolls against each other, but sometimes they race them about the room, pretending the floor’s ice water, and other times they beg Sigrid to make their figures new clothes, or they act out stories of old. 

The servant than joins them when Bard’s midway through the last chapter is Agatha, which he had to determine himself, as neither the Master or Alfrid had ever bothered to ask her for a name. She smiles at the children on her way through Tilda and Bain’s current battleground, but it’s Bard she comes to ask, “Would you like anything special? I’m heading out to the market.”

Bard already has more than he needs and politely answer, “No, but thank you for the thought.”

“I want a scarf,” Bain jumps in, to Bard’s stern look, but Agatha simply nods her head at him.

Tilda joins in, “I want a fish.”

“We have plenty of fish, if you’re hungry,” Bard informs her, nodding towards the direction of the pantry.

“I’m not hungry.”

Bain asks before Bard can, “Then what do you want the fish for?”

“I can’t tell you,” Tilda answers, looking scandalized that he would even ask. Sigrid chuckles like she knows, and perhaps she does, but she doesn’t tell. 

Finishing to bundle up the dress in her lap, she asks more politely, “May I join? I need more thread.”

Agatha looks at Bard for approval, but he just shrugs his shoulders. If it’s on the Master’s coin, which it always is now, there’s no reason to say no—they’ve been good, so far, about not becoming too spoiled, and it’s cold enough to warrant a new scarf, Sigrid deserves a bit of thread, and whatever Tilda wants her fish for, Bard’s sure it must be a good reason. So Agatha tells them, “Alright then,” and gathers up her apron to step over the wooden blocks of Girin the Brave’s now-shattered defense line, Arya the Orc having kicked them out somewhere during the conversation. 

One by one, the children follow her, though not until after Bard’s had Tilda clean up the blocks, which Tilda delegates to Arya. Bain helps because, as he puts it, “Girion is very noble and willing to help his enemies.”

Tilda counters, “They wouldn’t be enemies if Girion didn’t judge an orc by its cover.”

“ _Tilda_ , she’s an _orc_ ,” Bain sighs, rolling his eyes. “Everybody knows orcs are bad.”

“How would you know? You’re just going off stereotypes. Just because Arya is a fearsome warrior doesn’t mean she can’t also be a perfectly good—”

Agatha calls something from the other room that’s muffled by the wooden walls, and Bain and Tilda jump up to shout, “Coming!” They scramble out, leaving Bard to shake his head fondly. He could certainly afford to get them better dolls at this point, but he’s proud that they still enjoy the charm of their own. When they’re gone, he retrieves both dolls to place on a side table for safekeeping, lest the Master’s or Alfrid’s clumsy feet step on them. 

The book he continues to read in peace, sinking deeper into the allure of a fantasy world where things are just as bleak as his own, but less torturous in its disassociation. There’s something soothing about reading someone else’s problems, though he still hopes that within the next page and a half, a happy ending comes. He doesn’t make it quite that far. 

He’s on the very last page when a low shuffling noise and the feeling of eyes on him signal Alfrid’s presence. Alfrid meanders right in through the sitting room door and leans against the wall, safely out of Bard’s reach. Bard tries to ignore him and continue reading, but the distraction makes it difficult with the already challenging text, and he winds up having to read the last paragraph three times for it to sink in. Then he puts the book on the table by the dolls but stays in his armchair, leaning back to ask, “What do you want, Alfrid?”

“Must be nice,” Alfrid grunts, arms crossed, “having everyone love and want you.” He says it with acid on his tongue, as though Bard’s never done a thing to earn anyone’s respect. Alfrid can be so _exhausting_ sometimes.

But Bard has the day off and, finally, energy to spare. He gets slowly out of his armchair, taking odd delight in the way Alfrid shifts uncomfortably. Bard strolls towards him at a calm, deliberate pace, with an expression on his face that warns Alfrid to run, but Alfrid merely hunches back against the wall, fear mingling in with his distaste. It’s a power trip that Bard enjoys too much. He comes right up, to where they’re almost touching, Alfrid having to shrink back to keep them apart, and then Bard lifts both arms, pressing his palms flat against the wall to trap Alfrid in. Alfrid’s eyes widen, the sneer melting away into yearning. 

For that first moment, Bard just thrives in _dominance_ —he gets so little of it in his life, always beat down, smiling through it or just plain struggling. Here, he gets to revel in assurance. Bard gets to put Alfrid in his place. And Alfrid falls into subservience so easily, to where his dilated eyes are staring, hazy, at Bard’s lips, and Bard thinks he could order Alfrid to do just about _anything_ right now. It’s a better release than shooting arrows. 

He hisses, “Get on your knees.” He could add ‘ _for me_ ,’ but it’s already implied. He expects Alfrid to at least pretend to fight. But Alfrid obediently slinks down, still look up at Bard the whole time, his lips parted and breathing hard, until he’s eye-level with Bard’s crotch and _staring_ at it. The urge to _fuck him into the wall_ twists in Bard’s stomach. He could order Alfrid to open up and warm his cock, could probably make Alfrid stroke him and suck him and do all the work, or he could just slam mercilessly down Alfrid’s tight throat. It’s all too tempting. 

Somehow, he manages to hold himself back. He’s not quite _sure_ yet. His marriage is merely an understanding, an agreement of terms, but it’s still a _marriage_ , and fidelity’s implied until otherwise discussed. And it’s _Alfrid_ , and Bard’s still trying not to want that. He keeps his trousers fastened.

But he still crosses the line. He grabs the thick collar of Alfrid’s tunic and yanks him back up to his feet, hard enough for Alfrid to yelp in protest. Then Bard’s got him flattened against the wall, slamming him there with one hand on either of Alfrid’s fragile wrists and his knees deliberately dug into Alfrid’s. He pins Alfrid in place and shoves his mouth against Alfrid’s, _hard_ , meaning to be chaste but somehow using tongue, which Alfrid instantly opens for. Alfrid kisses him back so easily, desperately, trying to lick at him and suck on his tongue. It’s sloppy and ill-formed but stiflingly hot, and Bard’s hips buck forward on their own. He can feel Alfrid rock-hard against him. He grinds them together, Alfrid weakly trying to thrust back but no match for the strength with which Bard holds him. He’s a scrawny, lanky thing, but he’s warm and wild and makes Bard’s stomach clench in _hunger_. 

As soon as Bard pulls back, he knows he has to do _something_ , or he’s going to fuck Alfrid right here—he grabs a fistful of black hair and turns Alfrid sharply around, Alfrid crying out in pain. He’s shoved right back into the wall, but at least at an angle no good for making out. His ass wantonly thrusts back, trying to grind into Bard’s cock. Bard leans away and just eyes Alfrid’s back, shamefully finding it not so bad. 

When he’s finished, Bard flattens against Alfrid again, not because he means to, but because it’s the first solution that comes to mind to stop all Alfrid’s squirming. Alfrid moans, loud and filthy. Bard nips sharply at his ear to make him pay attention and growls, “You’re playing a dangerous game, Alfrid, offering yourself to a married man.”

Alfrid mutters back, hoarse and wanting, “The Master won’t suck your dick like I can.”

Bard’s body stirs in response, but Bard answers only, “You also can’t provide for me.”

Alfrid, head pressed aside with his cheek to the wall, hisses, “ _Whore._ ”

Bard’s been called every name in the book, but it still grates at him, and it instantly crushes his interest. He gives Alfrid an extra shove into the wall for punishment but then steps back. He snaps, “That’s my choice,” because that’s all that matters and it’s none of Alfrid’s business what he decides to do with his life. And he vaguely hates Alfrid for thinking otherwise. 

He gathers up his book and both his children’s dolls before he heads upstairs without looking back, planning to lock the door until the Master gets home from wherever.

* * *

The Master tends to sleep in for breakfast, but Bard makes sure he gets there for lunch before anyone else. He takes a seat right across from his husband at the ridiculously long dining table, and the Master looks back as though confused that Bard isn’t a servant with the meal. Bard told them to wait a few minutes before putting out the food and a few more before calling his children.

He folds his hands on the table and says, dead-panned and blunt, “I want Alfrid.”

“I beg your pardon,” the Master splutters, jerking his head back and looking thoroughly disturbed.

The last thing Bard needs is a stolen toady, so he clarifies, “I want to be able to fuck Alfrid.”

That changes the disapproval right into a glare, and the Master snarls back, “What about our marriage?”

Bard answers, “You can dissolve it,” only because he knows the Master won’t. He’s gotten everything he wanted: a full household, a fucktoy, and undeserved support from his people. The Master settles in place, obviously thinking. He could forbid Bard, and Bard probably wouldn’t leave either, but he’d needle the Master and grumble about it and eventually get his way, because he’s stronger and smarter and he knows how to stand his ground. Eventually, the Master narrows his eyes.

“Then I will as well,” the Master concludes. “Make use of Alfrid, that is. At least _he’ll_ put out more than once a week.” It’s said like an insult, but Bard doesn’t bat an eyelash. 

He says, “Fine.” In the back of his mind, he wonders if they’ve done that all along. For all of Alfrid’s judgment, he’d probably open right up for a few coins too, albeit for all different reasons. Bard quickly realizes he doesn’t want to think about it. 

In his wake, the Master shouts, “ALFRID!” And Alfrid comes running, like he always does, right out of nowhere. He stops to stand beside the Master, hands ringing together and half-bent over, looking both bothered and expectant: hardly the sycophant he used to be. The Master either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He waves a dismissive hand and announces, “Henceforth, you will be servicing both of us.” A certain change and tone donates the nature of the service. Alfrid’s eyes widen, and then he looks at Bard.

Bard shrugs and tries not to look the least bit interested. Alfrid still smiles slickly. He answers, “Of course,” and sinks right onto the bench of the table, next to the Master but eyeing Bard. He gets no more out, because the food arrives, his children right behind, and even Alfrid must know that if they ever get a whiff of this, the whole thing’s off. 

As Sigrid and Bain settle around Bard and Tilda bravely plops down next to Alfrid, all Bard can think is that he hopes to hell they grow up better than him.

* * *

It’s ridiculously satisfying. Easily the best sex he’s had in years. The best he can think of, because even when he had a wife he loved, he couldn’t use her this way, and he tries not to think about those times anymore. He can get off on being fucked by the Master, but he _thrives_ when he’s fucking Alfrid, because he can be an _animal_ and there aren’t any limits. 

He’s got Alfrid splayed over the Master’s desk, trousers around his ankles, tunic ripped half up his back where Bard grabbed him by it. Bard’s buried balls-deep in Alfrid’s channel, so _tight_ that it almost hurts and so, so _hot_. He’s slicked Alfrid with just spit even though he’s got a jar of oil nearby, but Alfrid just howls like he’s never been hurt so good. The doors and windows are firmly locked so their noises don’t permeate the whole of Laketown. 

Bard clutches Alfrid’s hips mostly, digging into the meager fat there to leave finger-shaped grooves, while his teeth sink into Alfrid’s shoulder. He’s already littered Alfrid with bites, and the marks stick out sharply against Alfrid’s sallow skin. Some are jostled from when Bard’s held on too long. Every one of his thrusts makes the desk shake, slams Alfrid into it so hard that his cock must be sore from slapping at the underside. Bard sort of wants to touch it but holds back, because he’ll save that for when Alfrid’s been _good_ —he wants to train Alfrid like a dog, and he doesn’t even have to feel guilty about it because Alfrid _adores_ this. He howls and squirms and mutters Bard’s name over and over again—he must’ve been getting off on the thought of Bard for years. 

Bard’s never once thought of fucking Alfrid until he came here. Now it fills him, the idea of consuming Alfrid, owning him completely, stuffing him full of cock and leaving him empty again. Alfrid’s body is strangely easy to hold in his arms. Alfrid’s compliant and eager and always thrusts back into him. There’s no being careful, no holding back. Bard just fucks his way home, until his balls are tightening and he knows he won’t last much longer. He knots his fist in Alfrid’s hair and jerks Alfrid’s head back, drawing a strangled cry. Then he straightens off the desk, dragging Alfrid with him, and he holds Alfrid in place in that cruel grip while he explodes in Alfrid’s tight channel, messily pounding his release back in. 

Alfrid comes from that alone, painting the desk and a few papers, and all Bard can think of is making him lick it up. There’s nothing too dirty, too depraved, to put Alfrid through. But by the time Bard’s done coming, he’s too spent and heady to bother with lewd fantasies, and he drapes over Alfrid instead, heavy and immensely satiated. 

When he pulls out, they both slump to the floor. Bard’s still dressed, except for his trousers hanging open, but Alfrid’s are ruined and stained—he sweats more. He instantly turns around in Bard’s lap, grabbing at Bard’s face to try and kiss him, but Bard turns his head away. Alfrid snarls in displeasure, but Bard holds up his finger, needing a minute. 

When he’s caught his breath again, he mutters, “Not that. Not yet. Not until you write up a proposal to provide public-housing funding for the poor without increasing taxes.” He could do it himself, but Alfrid’s better with the technical language and will have to ultimately enforce it.

Alfrid’s stricken with immediate horror, his face twisting up, but Bard ignores the theatrics and waits for Alfrid’s counter. “The Master will never sign that.”

Shrugging, Bard replies, “Then I guess you’ll never get to kiss me during sex.”

If possible, Alfrid scowls even harder and mumbles, “You’re a monster.”

Bard just laughs. It’s genuine mirth, and when he’s done, he tugs Alfrid’s hair to lower his face, and Bard presses a quick kiss to Alfrid’s forehead. In truth, he wants to stray lower. He’s kind of looking forward to it. But Alfrid’s desire is Bard’s greatest weapon, and he holds firm, settling now for money, a happy family, and bizarrely good sex. He’ll wait for the affection creeping into him. It’s complicated.

When he’s ready to go off for a bath, he leaves Alfrid to clean up the mess. He’s stopped feeling as dirty as he should, and the bath is a dream.

* * *

By their one-year anniversary, the house is less opulent than it used to be. It’s not so much from Tilda and Bain racing across the floor, although that’s certainly provided more wear and tear, but because altered policies are slowly having their effect. Evening out Laketown’s wealth is a largely uphill battle, but one that Bard’s winning, and it’s left everything far less dismal than it used to be. He can look out from his balcony and truly enjoy the view without any guilt. The people that bustle below occasionally look up to him, and most don easy smiles. 

He doesn’t bother to turn around when he hears the bedroom door open. He lets the Master come to him, out onto the balcony, where the Master grabs him from behind, wrapping him in thick arms and pressing him forward into the rails. Finally glancing over his shoulder, Bard chides, “Are you sure you want to waste your round humping me here?”

The Master purrs into Bard’s ear, “I want to fuck you for all to see.” Bard rolls his eyes but doesn’t worry for it—the Master’s too self-conscious for such antics, and Bard wouldn’t agree anyway. He’s only denied the Master three times, each settling in a day or two, and in all three instances, the Master pouted and pestered like a child but did no more—all bark and no bite, as Bard’s always known. The guards are more loyal to him now than the Master, and it’s by his good will alone that this continues. They both know that. Bard lets The Master grind against him just a little longer, then elbows the Master back to an annoyed grunt but obeyed relief. 

Alfrid interrupts just in time, peeking through the bedroom door to call, “Breakfast is served!” It’s more like lunch, but Alfrid tends to rename meals to fit the Master’s schedule. It brings back the Master’s grin and has him heading straight for the door, Bard pausing for one last look before following. 

All three children are already at the table, looking quite joyous and in the throes of laughter. As Bard takes his seat next to Tilda, he asks, “What’ve I missed?”

“The new library’s opening today,” Sigrid volunteers first, leaning over the table in glee as the servers slide plates of pancakes down the line. “It’s where the old fire-shack used to be—they say both stories are going to be full of books from as far as Eriador.”

“ _Gon_ dor,” Tilda smartly corrects.

Sigrid huffs back, “That’s an entirely different place altogether. I told you, many places have ‘dor’ on the end—they’re not all the same thing.”

“I thought it was Mordor,” Bain cuts in.

“That’s another place,” Sigrid sighs, “and not at all what they said. Most of the books are by donation anyway, and some salvaged from Dale, some even from past trade with Erebor—”

“Era _dor_ ,” Tilda jumps in.

Sigrid rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother continuing, which leaves Bard grinning fondly. To distract them, he asks, “You’re wanting to go, I take it? And this is your round about way of asking me to take you?”

“Alfrid’s taking us,” Tilda says, to Bard’s surprise. He glances down at her, then across the table at Alfrid, who sits next to Sigrid like a preening cat. Obviously, he thinks it’ll earn him points.

For the most part, Bard prefers Alfrid and the Master to keep out of his children’s business, but a library outing is safe enough, and none of them seem to mind. He allows Alfrid a small, half-smile, that turns Alfrid’s so broad that it dimples his whole face.

Halfway into a pancake, the only one at the table that eats half as fast as Tilda, the Master adds, “Just be sure to be home for later.” Why, he doesn’t say, but Alfrid bobs his head and knows. Their mutual gift is going to be a unique one. Bard’s already expended entirely too much thought on it—he hasn’t been in a threesome before.

He’s not sure how it’ll work. He imagines Alfrid will be in the middle, though he sort of wants it to be him. He wouldn’t mind being pleasured on both ends, both their mouths or the Master’s cock in him and his in Alfrid’s, but he also wouldn’t mind spit-roasting Alfrid between them. He has to shake his head and push the thoughts away—he’ll think about it later when he’s not with the family. 

For a clean slate, he announces, “I think I’ll come along, if no one minds.”

Before they can all insist they don’t, the Master splutters around his last bite of two pancakes that were stuck together, “But what about our anniversary?”

Bain snorts and Tilda looks like she might laugh, but Sigrid looks sternly at both of them: the most respectful of Bard’s very questionable decision. All three still seem to see the marriage for the sham it is. 

But Bard still tries to keep the peace, and he offers, “So we’ll all go.” Then, when the Master looks like he might protest, Bard rolls on: “It’ll give the people of Laketown some happiness to see us all working together.” The Master’s mouth instantly shuts again—he hasn’t at all minded the popularity trip Bard’s given him, and he always revels in attention. 

So he begrudgingly agrees, “Very well, we shall leave one hour henceforth,” as if it was his idea all along. “But we will certainly be back before dark and there shall be no more outings planned without my approval.” No one challenges him, simply because they all know that no one will abide that.

As Sigrid pours a bit more of the melted berries onto her plate, she chirps brightly, “Until I run things, anyway.”

The Master groans as though he’s a poor victim in it all, and Bard laughs, “I couldn’t ask for a better heir.” Alfrid reaches over for the pot of berries while Sigrid’s still using it, so from her other side, Bain slaps Alfrid’s hand away. That gives the Master a chuckle, which makes Tilda snort. Sigrid offers the pot to Bard after, but Bard kindly passes it first to Alfrid. His bitterness melts away.


End file.
